Melting Pot
by Crowded Angels
Summary: Missing scenes, extended scenes, just plain random scenes. Too short to make separate postings. Any pairing possible. #lietomelives!
1. one

_**Scene 1 - Post-'Sweet 16'. **_

The headache still hadn't gone. The ringing in her ears – what she hoped was the cause of the headache – had passed a few hours ago, but still her head was pounding.

As was most of her body. She had hit the ground with some force, coupled with Cal's weight on top of her, she wasn't really too surprised she'd have some sort of injury.

She looked herself over in the mirror, no overt signs that she'd just nearly been killed by a bomb, no cuts or bruises to her face or front. She probably had Cal to thank for that.

She turned around and gingerly wrapped her arms around herself, her face registering the discomfort from stiffness and aching already setting into her muscles. She looked over her shoulder – her neck protesting the manoeuvre – and watched in the mirror as she lifted up the back of her sweater.

Her mouth fell agape.

Every notch of her spine was rapidly purpling, a vertical line of bruises.

"Jesus..." a voice announced from the doorway.

Gillian quickly dropped the material, straightening it back down against her jeans. "Cal! Ladies room, again!"

He ignored her and stepped forwards, letting the door whoosh closed behind him. He grabbed the bottom of her sweater and lifted it back up to reveal the angry welts.

"I'm fine," she said quietly, turning so he could get a better look.

"That's hardly fine, love."

"It just," she started, suddenly feeling cold fingers gently pressing at the bruises. "It just means no backless dresses or bikinis for a while. Both of which are an acceptable daily wardrobe choice of mine, of course."

He didn't smile.

She suddenly gave a yelp of pain. "What was that?"

"Get your bag, we're going to the hospital."

"What? No we're not."

"Come on," he held the door open.

"Cal, I'm not going to the emergency room."

"Gillian, you have a bump the size of Mount Rushmore on the back of your head. Get your bag."

She gently fed her fingers through her hair.

"That'll be why you still have that headache." He wasn't about to explain how he knew that, no matter how much she stared at him. "Bag."


	2. two

Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing!

A line of this comes courtesy of the show 'Standoff' that I adored and was pulled too soon. The "psycho!babble" is courtesy of Lightwoman, with thanks! x

* * *

"...His mother's forceful and dominant nature, subjugating both him and his father into submission, created in him as a child the foundations for the misogyny that intensified as he grew older. His dissatisfaction with female school teachers and colleagues, his lack of ability to form successful relationships, and the continued presence of the person who had created these feelings of inadequacy and turmoil within him only fuelled the fire. What's interesting is his..." she smirked, "You're not listening to a word I say, are you?

"Is it wrong that I imagine you naked when you say stuff like that?"

She grins, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs, the slice of her skirt flashing just a hint of lace stocking top. "You imagine me naked when I give my lunch order."

He waggles his eyebrows, daring her on in their dangerous game, "Talk dirty to me."

"Turkey," she smirks, her lips pursed.

He closes his eyes, fighting the grin on his lips as he exaggerates his apparent arousal with a groan.

"On rye," she breathes.

"_Slower_."

She leans in close, her voice barely above a husky whisper, "..._mayonnaise_."

The grin creeps across his mouth as he opens his eyes, seeing her mirroring his expression.

"You're bad," she laughs before diverting her attention back to the referral papers strewn across her desk. "Okay, next we have the Dale Brianti case. Feds believe he's behind the I95 murders..."

Cal slouches even lower in his chair with a sigh and closes his eyes, not ready to give up the visuals he had going on.


	3. three

Thank you to everyone for reading and/or reviewing! It's nice to know these twisted, weird little bursts make sense to other people too :)

* * *

His eyes are cast to his shoes, watching them smack against the asphalt as he walks through the underground garage. His shoulders are aching and his head banging with a tension headache, nothing a stiff scotch and a bed wouldn't heal.

He digs his hand into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the keys as he looks up to his car, not expecting to see Gillian perched on the bonnet. Her legs are crossed, balancing on the wheel as she flicks a thumb over the screen of her phone.

"I've seen this music video," he announces pushing a button on the keys, a smirk spreading across his lips as she jumps at the car beeps.

She looks at him with confusion as she slides down the fender.

"Whitesnake?"

She flashes him that coy smirk she has when she knows she shouldn't rise to his innuendos. "Funny. My car won't start, can I get a ride?"

She sees the mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and corrects herself, "I mean in your car. _I mean, _can you drive me home?"

He laughs as he gestures for her to climb in.


	4. four

Thanks everyone for reading and/or reviewing! Off on my jollies on Friday (NYC baby!), so this may be the last update for a while. Leave you on a, ahem, _high_...

;) x

* * *

Gillian Foster has no problem in the air. She flew to Venice for her honeymoon, frequently criss-crosses the States for her work and very nearly followed a lover to live in Australia. She has no problem flying.

That's not to say she particularly likes it. She's fine once she's up there, cruising at whatever-thousand feet, but the getting to and from such heights? No thank you. It makes her heart beat frantically and her fingers tingle with pins and needles.

Over the years, she has learnt some tricks, some coping mechanisms. Like curling the excess seat belt in her fist, closing her eyes until it practically hurts and focussing her attention on an ever-lasting gobstopper. The latter works best, she has found she's less likely to analyse the whirring of the wheels, the thumping of the engines or the flipping of her stomach if she is trying to figure out what flavour she's gotten down too.

She has a similar routine for turbulence and it is something Cal was taking great delight in discovering.

"You alright there, Foster?" he smirks, watching her eyelids shut tighter with each drop of altitude.

The descent into Las Vegas, over the dry deserts and its tumulus heat waves was causing a bit of havoc to the otherwise smooth flight from DC.

"Mmhmm," she murmurs, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the belt loop.

"You sure?"

"Mmhmm."

This turbulence was nothing compared to flying over rainforests to primitive and secluded tribes in what was effectively a porta-cabin with wings. Cal knew first-hand.

He looks behind him to where Reynolds is sprawled out over a bank of seats, his feet still jutting out into the aisle. He isn't the least bit bothered by the rocking plane, enjoying the mid-day nap in the five-star surroundings.

Again, the plane drops suddenly and he sees Gillian's stomach clench and her eyes close tighter.

"Whoa, that was a big'un!" he laughs.

"Mmhmm," she breathes again, barely making a noise. Her mouth is a tight line and her eyes just wrinkles resting on rosy cheeks. She scrambles a hand into her purse, blindly searching out the box of gobstoppers and finding it empty. Her eyes shoot open as she rifles through the bag, not finding any loose forgotten candy as she had hoped. She drops it to her feet and resumes her earlier position as the plane dips again. "Talk to me."

"Excuse me?"

"Talk to me. Do something. Anything. Take my mind off the turbulence."

"I thought you were a good flyer."

"I am, but...but not when we're plummeting hundreds of feet in a split second and leaving my stomach up in the air somewhere."

He's smirking when they drop again and she calls his name with panic in her voice. He casts a glance out the window to the Vegas skyline.

He quietly unclips his buckle, letting the straps fall silently to the seat and he licks his lips. _When in Vegas._

He gently sits in the seat next to hers, careful to not let her realise where he is. He blows on his fingertips and in an instant he places them on the inside of her thigh, just inside the hem of her skirt. Her eyes snap open as she turns to face him, but his lips are on hers before a sound escapes.

She's still against his movements until the turbulence hits again and his fingers involuntarily move up her thigh with a feather-light caress.

Her hand covers his arm as the other flies to his cheek and keeps him in place, finally returning the kiss.

She turns to him as much as the seat belt allows and places her leg over his knees, his fingers drawing the lightest of shapes across the sensitive skin. The turbulence begins to work in her favor as the sudden drops shift his ministrations, eliciting a moan against his mouth.

He draws his tongue along her lips and she allows entry, anything and everything from the outside world melting away as he groans, the vibration travelling through her entire body.

His kisses move to her jaw, her ear, her neck. She gives a half-sigh as he nips at her pulse, it thumping heavily under his lips.

An almighty bang suddenly sounds and her eyes fly open, her body tensing.

"Welcome to Las Vegas, Nevada, folks," the pilot announces over the tannoy.

Leaving one last kiss on her skin, Cal spins in his seat and faces forward. Gillian's eyes are wide as she removes her leg from on top of his and smoothes down her skirt as much as the seat-belt restriction would allow.

She wipes a hand across her lips as Reynold's begins to stir, sitting up straight with bleary eyes. "We here? Did I sleep through everything?"

Cal smirks, savouring the taste on his tongue.


	5. five

So, this. Well, if you know me you won't be particularly surprised lol But it did actually snow today, and 'It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas' may or may not have appeared on a random shuffle this morning...but regardless I actually wrote this an age ago and just found it. So... ;)

* * *

The gloves were off. Well, more accurately, the shoes. She had toed them off at the door, careful to not make a single sound. She even held her breath as she tip-toed into the break room, it was imperative that there was silence, even if her brain was screaming from the tingling pain as her hand went numb.

She crept in further, the grin on her lips growing wider and wider with each step. _Too perfect_, she thought.

She came to a stop behind her target. A quiet intake of breath. In one fluid motion, she pulled at the collar to Cal's polo shirt and dropped the handful of snow down his back, jumping back instantly.

To her infinite delight, he yelped in surprise, spinning on the spot grabbing at his back. "What the-_you_!"

She wiggled her fingers in hello, before bringing them up to cover her mouth, watching the satisfying wet patch travel down his back. "You got a little... thing there," she pointed with a smirk.

He dragged the shirt from his trousers, bending backwards as small thud sounded from the remaining snowball hitting the floor. "You know this is war, right? I take no prisoners, Foster."

"Bring. It." She smirked as her eyebrows wiggled.

"I will," he promised, always to have the final word. He watched her spin on her toes and pad back to the door, stooping to collect her shoes. His head tilted as he took in the view, quickly correcting as she carried the shoes over her shoulder and strutted to her office.

Xx

She checked her watch, sighing at the ever darkening hour. It would have been nice to actually see her apartment, maybe throw on some sweat pants, veg out in front of a sappy Christmas romance film... But no, she was still dotting I's and crossing T's and searching for that article that she could have sworn was in the American Journal of Psychology from March.

She pulled another book from the shelf, flipping it open on top of the other four balanced on her arm. She started humming again, a Christmas song stuck in her head. Licking her finger, she flicked pages until a quiet tone sounded from her desk. Her brows furrowed slightly as she crossed over to her computer, clicking a key to open the new email.

A video file was loading.

_Santa Baby, slip a sable under the tree. For me. _

"Oh my God."

_I've been an awful good girl, Santa Baby._

"Oh God."

_So hurry down the chimney tonight. _

"I'll kill him," she muttered, albeit with a smirk. He'd recorded her strutting around her office singing along to the tune. He'd even zoomed in on her ass at a particularly strut-y moment. "I'm _actually_ going to kill him," she said definitively.

"That's just a taster..." Cal announced, sticking his head around the door and grinning, cell phone in his hand.

"Cal!" she called, taking off after him as he escaped down the hall.

"You ever thought about going pro? You've got the moves there, Foster," he was laughing.

She pulled on his shoulder trying to spin him around, but he wriggled out and stayed a few steps ahead, suddenly turning a corner.

"I got the whole performance," he gestured to the phone, "I could write up a few notes if you wanted."

"Give me the phone, Cal." She was grinning against her best intentions.

"Why?"

"So I can delete the video!"

"Now, Gillian, you know any good blackmail evidence is copied multiple times onto multiple mediums. It's just good business practice."

"_So help me God_ I will hurt you when I get my hands on you."

He smirked, quickly dodging right into the other hallway. "Promise?"

She tried so hard not to laugh, especially at the surprise on his face as Emily crept up behind him and yanked the phone from his grasp, tossing it quickly to Foster. "And people say _I'm _immature."

"She started it!" Cal groaned, wrapping his arm around Emily's neck in a loose half-nelson.

"Yes and I'm finishing it," she smiled, digging her father in the side until he let go of her. "Deleted it?"

Gillian clicked another button, "...yes. Thank you, Em, good timing."

"Glad to be of service." She turned to Cal, "Ready to go?"

"I'll grab my coat." He rounded Emily and gave a wide berth past Gillian as she handed back his phone, garnering a shove as he started to hum 'Santa Baby'.

"How did you wind up so level-headed?" Foster smiled, placing an arm around Emily's shoulders as they meandered towards the large Christmas tree.

She shrugged, "Someone had to be the sensible one."


	6. six

The spring clean continues. Set in s1, a re-imagining if you like...

Eternal gratitude for the reviews of previous chapters! xx

* * *

The heavy door came to a close behind Cal as he stepped into the darkly lit bustling restaurant. He'd never been to it before, but knew all about it and its reputation for discretion. Politicians and higher-ups choosing it to wine and dine their mistresses with no questions asked and second glances.

"Table for two?" Cal asked in a muted voice, hands dug deep into his pockets as he scanned the rooms.

The maitre'd ran a pen down his list and looked over his glasses at him, his head still bowed. "Where is your other party?" he snarled.

Cal looked over to the busy bar, finding a blonde smiling at him but looking away when their gazes met. Bingo. He pointed with a grin, "Over there."

"Very well," he sighed, looking between the two and scribbling on his page.

Cal patted his arm as he past, making his way over to the girl. He squeezed himself into a gap in front of her. "Hi," he smirked.

"Hey, I'm Amber," her head tilted to one side, feeding the thin red straw between ruby red lips.

"Cal," he smirked, taking her hand and placing a kiss on her fingers. "Amber, will you do something for me?"

She smirked, "...Probably."

He grinned, watching her tongue wrap around the straw. "Fiesty, I like that." He motioned for the bar tender, ordering a round for himself and Amber. "I have some...business to attend to. Will you come find me in ten minutes? Tell me the table is ready?"

Her hip cocked to one side, "hmm... what will that get me?"

"Eternal gratitude and a slap-up meal with yours truly?"

She pretended to think about it. "Go on then."

Cal smirked. "Excellent. Ten minutes, beautiful." He turned into the bar, cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. Pulling the scotch to his lips, he turned on his heel and looked into the other room, between the tables of hushed-toned couples and dark suited businessmen.

He watched as Alec Foster whispered something into the ear of a stunning blonde woman.

She laughed, her cheeks blushing as she brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Alec leant back, grinning, obviously very proud of himself. His smile quickly faltered when he set sight on Cal.

Cal whispered "Show time," to Amber and meandered over to his table, acting oblivious to the scene he'd just witnessed.

He took a deep breath, burying the white hot anger that bubbled in his stomach. "Alec! I thought that was you. How are you, mate?" he spun the free chair around, not waiting for the invitation, and sat with his arms across the back. He leant over the table and slapped Alec's arm - maybe a bit harder than he had intended. "I'm just waiting for my table," he looked over his shoulder to where Amber was watching. She gave a little wave. "Gorgeous, isn't she? Speaking of gorgeous," he turned to Alec's lady friend, "Where's his manners, eh? I'm Cal Lightman, friend of his wife, Gillian. Wow, you really are beautiful. What are you doing sat with this guy, eh?" he laughed, slapping Alec's arm again, enjoying the flinch of pain that flashed across his features.

"Hi," she smiled widely. She was playing the innocent act well, but Cal could see the fear in her eyes. "I'm Christine."

Cal shook her hand, "Lovely to meet you. You've known Alec long?"

"A-a few years," she faltered, her eyes flicking to Alec.

"Cal-"

"Oh, so you must have met Gillian then? His wife? Lovely woman. Really. Beautiful, intelligent... only a fool would want to lose that."

"Cal."

Cal dropped the smile, his eyes narrowing and jaw setting. He could have played that game all day, but the fear was more than evident on Alec's reddening face. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen. I am not going to tell Gillian what I saw here, and believe me, I saw enough. But neither are you. You are, however, going to break up with her. You're going to tell her that you're using again, back on the white stuff. She will never know about Christine here. Never. And it's going to happen by the end of the week."

Alec shifted in his seat, fingers rubbing at his furrowed brow as he tried to save some semblance of his masculinity. "And if I don't?"

Cal didn't say a word. Didn't need to. He just darted his tongue out to lick his lips and continued to stare directly at him. He watched as Alec swallowed and dropped his eye line.

"End of the week," Alec nodded.

"Honey? The table's ready," Amber announced behind him, rubbing a hand over his back.

Cal snapped back to the smile, turning the intimidation act off like a switch. "Coming, love. Alec, always a pleasure. Christine, lovely to meet you." He tucked the chair back beneath the table, wrapped an arm around Amber's waist and guided her back to the bar.


	7. seven

#LietoMeLives!

Written a while back, after one too many listens of 'Boys Boys Boys' by (all hail) Lady Gaga, and one too many lolz with recoilandgrace ;)

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Gillian asked, surprised to see Reynolds walking through the doors on a Saturday morning.

"Left my cell phone charger in my office."

"And the shorts?"

"On my way to the gym," he smirked as she fell into step with him.

"Aww, and here's me thinking it was just for my benefit..."

Ben laughed, but before he would retort a voice declared "Oi! Legs!"

Both Gillian and Ben stopped in their tracks.

"I think he's talking to me," she sighed.

"Oh, he'd better be..."

She laughed, a hand squeezing his arm as she spun around. "Yes, Cal?"


	8. eight

a) #LieToMeLives!  
b) Old Ebbit Grill in DC is amaaaaazing.  
c) Anna-centric, because she is/was adorable and deserved some back story. This is my version :)

* * *

She was beaming; there wasn't really another word for it. She had a giant smile on her face, a spring in her step and a bottle of wine in her hand with her Old Ebbitt Grill take out.

She'd done good today. To anyone else, it was a small -if inconsequential- victory, but for Anna it was fantastic.

She'd helped on a case. Not just in the phonecall and filing sense, she'd actually interviewed someone. Well, helped. Well, asked some questions whilst Dr Lightman looked on. But he'd trusted her to ask the questions and she had even managed to read the guy to keep him talking. Dr Lightman always said the best way to read someone was to have someone else ask the questions, and by all accounts, she'd done a good job too. Dr Lightman hadn't followed her out with a wink and 'you done good, kid' or anything, he's not that kind of boss, but he'd looked even more insufferable when she'd left his office.

They'd managed to do his favourite thing: catch someone in a lie.

She'd swear he had a faint glimmer of pride in his eyes at her exchange with the guy. Maybe she was just projecting, but either way, she was celebrating with a good merlot and a twenty dollar steak.

She changed into her pyjama bottoms and an oversized Georgetown sweater when she got home and settled on the floor between her couch and coffee table. She had a stack of books in front of her, wine to the left, meal to the right and a pile of half chewed highlighters on the floor by her side.

One of the things she liked most about her job was how good they were about her studies. She was in her final year at college having taken time out for her bastard of an ex. He was long behind her now, and, depending on who she spoke to, working at The Lightman Group was good experience for her psych course. When there weren't people to greet or folders to file or law enforcement to stall, she could break out her text books and study a little in the downtime. Having Dr Foster on hand didn't hurt either, and her library of psychology tomes and journals had saved Anna an absolute fortune.

She bit into a slice of steak as she flicked through Dr Lightman's first book, a smile still on her face. She had almost finished it; highlighted and annotated it just as much as she had her college books and learned just as much from it. Again, she cursed herself for not reading it three years ago and saving herself some heartbreak from The Bastard, but if she had she wouldn't be where she was now.

She occasionally let her mind wander, when the thought of reading about _psychodynamic psychotherapy_ one more time would send _her _psycho. She would envisage herself walking in the door, tottering in on her expensive shoes and business dress-suit, having just come from some important meeting on the Hill or even The White House. She'd be flicking through a case file, collecting messages from the receptionist –_that wasn't her!-_ and smirking with the young lab techs as they watched her pass with arousal barely disguised on their young faces. She'd close her office door behind her and be thankful for the solace as the work began to pile high on her desk, but she wouldn't work on it straightaway. No, she'd send a quick text to her fiancé and smile his Josh Duhamel-looks in the photo of them on her desk and she'd get that rush of warmth coursing through her of happiness. Actual happiness, like she'd found her place in the world and was comfortable and admired.

Maybe if she studied more and kept impressing Dr Lightman and Dr Foster, she'd get that bit closer to it.


	9. nine

#LieToMeLives!

* * *

Gillian Foster groaned. Quietly, but a groan nonetheless.

She heaved herself up on the couch, waiting a few seconds for her head to catch up with her. She wiped at her nose, attempted to breathe and forced herself to pad over to the front door where Cal was knocking far too loudly.

She wrapped her fingers around the too-long sleeves of her oversized 'comfy jumper' and pulled on the handle after shooting him an unimpressed look through the window.

He laughed, "Oooh, you look awful." She had a red, raw nose, puffy, un-mascara'd eyes and a half-open mouth so she could breathe.

"And yet," she said, turning on her heel and returning to the sanctuary of her couch, "I feel so much worse."

He smirked, closing the door behind himself and sitting on the coffee table in front of her. "I brought soup."

"Chicken?"

"Mulligatawny. Mum's recipe. It'll sweat that cold outta ya," he pulled the silver flask out of his pocket and placed it at his side.

She opened one eye, saw the flask and closed it again. "Thank you."

"Do you want anything?"

"I want not to be sick."

"_You want knobs and dick_?"

"I want _not_ to be _sick_!" She clarified, not needing to open her eyes to know he was smirking.

"Ooh... 'cos with the nose and the mucus-"

"-Go away."

"Hey, I'm just trying to be an attentive care giver. And I can be a _very_..._attentive...giver_."

"Go away!" she laughed, tossing the pillow from behind her back at him.

"Okay, okay!" he gave her back the pillow and pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to cover her. He placed a kiss in her hair. "Feel better. Have the soup."

She gave an affirmative moan, sleep taking control again.


	10. ten

#LieToMeLives! Also, yes, this is somewhat (ahem) similar to my post-'Honey' piece, I just really love this visual and think it had to have happened a billion times in the course of their friendship...

* * *

"Stay still!" she warned again.

"S'not in my nature, love."

He twitched again, causing the tweezers to hit the open wound and eliciting a deep, long hiss. "Cal!"

He was hunched over on her couch and shirtless. With the dim lighting and roaring fire, it might have been an intimate scene, if it weren't for her back facing and the multiple, small, bloody lacerations covering his skin.

"Easy..."

"You should've gone to the ER..."

"They're not that bad. I'll be fine."

"How do you know? You can't see them..." her voice slowed as she concentrated on extracting another shard of glass from a puncture. They were all superficial, for the most part, and would heal quickly and fully, it was just the sheer amount.

She held a clean tissue, collecting the droplet of blood as she opened a band-aid with her teeth. She was running low on bandages now and, not that he knew, had had to resort to some 'Hello Kitty' designs she'd found stashed in a cupboard.

A few of the lacerations had required a single butterfly stitch to make sure it closed cleanly, but he was entrusting far too much faith in her female intuition, a college first aid course and extensive watching of George Clooney on 'ER'. "You remember I'm not _this _kind of Doctor, right?"

"Can tell, you're not exactly gentle." She went heavy-handed with the tweezers again for effect, garnering a satisfying strangled groan from him.

She attached the last band-aid and sat back, shaking her head at the sight of twelve – fifteen?- multicoloured bandages and stitches covering his back thanks to the bomb blast. "Done."

Cal stood up, feeding his arms through his shirt as she snapped off her latex gloves.

"What about...?" she gestured to his jeans.

He followed her gaze with a smirk. "You wanna check?"

"No, but I can give you a magnifying glass if you wanna look for anything else down there...?" her lips pursed and eyebrows raised.

"'ey now, less o'that!"

Gillian laughed as she sat back down next to her. She placed a hand on against his forehead, "You feeling okay?"

He ducked away from her touch, "I'm fine. Nothing a stiff..._whisky_ and a few aspirin can't cure."

"You sure?"

"Been in worse explosions," he shrugged.

"Yes, but this wasn't just an explosion. This was a running jump over a railing and on top of me whilst a C4 bomb exploded behind you with flying shrapnel piercing into your flesh."

He shrugged again.

"Is that not memorable?"

"Being on top of you was."

She rolled her eyes, unable to fight the smirk as she crossed to her kitchen, bringing back two whisky tumblers and a vial of Advil. She filled the glasses with water, smirking at the disgusted look on his face. "You zoned out on me this afternoon, you might have a concussion so the glass is as close as you're getting to a whisky tonight. You're also sleeping here so I can wake you every hour and keep an eye on you."

"Gill-"

"That's final, Cal." She passed him a tumbler and sat back, tucking her legs behind her.

He sighed defeat, placing his hand on her knee and squeezing. "Cheers, love. I'd better call Em."

"Did. She's staying at Ria's tonight."

"Bet that'll be fun!"

She swatted his arm as she sipped on the water. She thread her fingers through his on her knee. "Close one today."

He was silent for while. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."


	11. eleven

Prompt: 'beginnings'

#lietomelives! x

* * *

"Knock knock," he finally announced, having stood in the doorway watching her for a good few minutes. She was stood by the window, a gentle sway to her body as she looked out over the city lights. There was an air of contentment in her movements, a buzz of excitement in the room and the quiet snoring of a baby in her arms.

She spun to his voice, whispering _"Hi!"_ and stepping forwards. "I didnt hear the door."

"Alec let me in," he said putting the gift bags on the chair by the door and crossing to her, a smile on his lips mirroring hers. "Hiya, darlin'," he kissed her cheek. Looking to the little bundle of brilliant white blankets tucked into her chest, he asked, "So this is who I have to thank for nine months of running the show solo?"

She smirked and unfolded the little girl from her side, passing her over. Cal fed a hand under her head and one on her diaper and held her out from him, an ease only a parent could show. He studied her. The little fingers curled under her chin randomly flexing as if against her own volition, her ankles still crossed in the foetal position, the shock of dark wispy hair spiked on her head. "Yeah, okay, she'll do."

Gillian shook her head and swatted his arm.

"She got a name?"

"Sophie, after my Grandmother."

"Sophie. Sophie Foster. Not bad."

"I'm glad you approve."

"Heidi did a whip 'round in work," he gestured to the giftbags by the door. "And there's one from Emily with a beg to babysit...and the little one's from me."

Intrigue knitted her brow at his avoidance of her gaze. She spun on her heel and crossed to the old rocking chair against the wall, pulling apart the little ribbon handles of the smallest gift bag. Her fingers grasped at the velvet material and pulled out a leopard print onesie with purple writing declaring _'My Mom's a MILF._' She held it up as she crossed back over to his side. "Cal...Cal, that's disgusting."

He was grinning, obviously very proud of himself, "I know."

She was shaking her head with a laugh as she stretched it out in front of her, noting the gold trim and diamante poppers. "Where would you even find something like that? _Who_ would seriously dress their child in that?"

"You mean you don't like it?"

"The sentiment, yes," she smirked, folding the ridiculous babygrow over the side of the crib and looking over his shoulder as Sophie stirred lightly in his hands.

"I thought you might say that, so there's a bottle of champagne and a few cigars downstairs with Alec."

"Thank you," she smiled, running a hand down his arm. He was studying Sophie again, a far off look in his eyes. "Any advice?"

"Photographs. You'll want them to look back on when she's fourteen and shouting that you don't understand her and she's getting into trouble with a pimpled little prick of a smart arse boyfriend..." He thought about for a beat more, "and don't bring up the topic of sex two weeks after she's born because it will jeopardise something vital to future offspring."

She laughed, "I don't think that's gonna be a problem for us."

"Aye aye!"

"_I mean_ because I didn't give birth to her."

"Doesn't make her any less yours," He insisted, seeing the flash of doubt across her features.

She smiled, though the doubt had abated little.


End file.
